Blood Red in a Snow White World
by blackberet
Summary: Quiet, shy Maria of HM64 hid behind a gently-smiling mask for an entire game. But what thoughts lay beneath that mask?


Disclaimer: I don't own Harvest Moon, Maria, or any related characters or events; to the best of my knowledge, they're all owned by Natsume. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is purely coincidental.  
  
I know this story caused a little confusion in its posting on HMFarm, so to clarify: this is my personal take on Maria's worldview from HM64. It's a one-shot, so at least at this point it's not part of a bigger storyline, and in and of itself, it doesn't even HAVE a storyline. It's intended only as one possible interpretation of the mind of a character. And with that said...  
  
Blood-Red in a Snow-White World  
  
by flame mage  
  
**********  
  
The dust gathers quickly in the silent, brutal stillness that always seems to fill the library. I dust every day, but somehow the gray dust always filters back, drifts in the sunlight spilling on the floor.  
  
It's lonely sometimes. My father is the mayor, so he's always busy. And mother...she's the Good Samaritan, the politician's wife, spending her time mothering Elli and Ann instead of me. The rest of the day she spends at home, doing...what? Maybe much like me--standing alone, doing and redoing simple tasks that don't need to be done, staring out the window with unseeing eyes.  
  
Here, on this island...all of us know our paths in life here. We do the same jobs that our parents or grandparents once did. Karen works at the bar and vineyard, just as her grandmother did. Elli and Popuri will take over their families' shops, Ann the ranch. And me...like my grandmother, I work at the library. When my father dies, however...I don't know. The job of mayor in this town is also passed along in this family, but I...I can't be mayor. There will be an election, I suppose, for the first time in four generations. And with his death, and then mine, our family line will end. I don't think I'll ever marry and have children...  
  
When Grandmother died, I was eight years old. I started working in the library--there was no one else. I finished reading all the books that I hadn't already read within days. Then I went up into the mountains to gather fruit, and I fished. I sold what I could, and used the money to take the ferry and buy new books on the mainland, books that no one except me ever read.  
  
I read a lot...  
  
When I can't read, I write. I've written a lot of short stories, some poetry. I even started a novel.  
  
I've never sent them anywhere, though. And they're not very good. Besides, Mother told me I should marry someone and let him take care of me so I wouldn't have to work any more, but I don't want to. I like the books.  
  
And no one would ever want to marry someone like me anyway...  
  
I draw sometimes. I like to draw the insects I find. I went to school with the pastor, like all the other children, but he didn't know the answers to my questions. I started reading instead to find them.  
  
I love studying the bugs. They're so fascinating! In the Spring, Louis comes, and he tells me about the new ones he's found during the year. I wish I could be like him sometimes. He goes all over the world, looking for new species. I'd like to be like that.  
  
Sometimes I envy people like Cliff, who ran away; Kai and Jack who are outsiders and free to leave whenever they want. People like me, and like Karen, who want so desperately to see the world beyond this island--we remain trapped here, locked in a tomb. And here we are until that tomb suffocates us.  
  
I...I'm sorry. I'm not usually like this...  
  
Perhaps it's just that it's nearing the end of the year. The snow on the ground, the cold flow of the wind...Winter doesn't chill your body so much as your heart.  
  
Today was my birthday.  
  
*****  
  
My father left the house early. I came out of my room; my mother was about to leave.  
  
"Mother..." I greeted her.  
  
She looked over her shoulder at me, distracted. "Oh, it's you." She always seems surprised to see me, as if I don't really live there.  
  
I didn't want to ask, but I forced myself. "Mother...what are you doing today?"  
  
She was picking up her purse now, now glancing at her nails. "Oh, I thought I'd go down to the bakery today. Winter is the perfect time for sweets."  
  
"Could...I...it's my birthday, today," I blurted out.  
  
"Oh!" she exclaimed. All Mother's statements seem to begin with an 'oh.' "Happy birthday, dear." She came back to ruffle my hair, and then she was gone.  
  
Everyone always tells me how lucky I am to have a mother who cares so much. But it's not me that she cares for...  
  
It's never me.  
  
When I walked into the library this morning, there was a book on the floor.  
  
The sight stopped me for a moment. I never leave books lying on the floor. And I was sure it hadn't been there the night before...  
  
I came closer. My eyes are poor, even with these thick glasses, but I knew the book long before I could read the title. It was the old fantasy book, always my favorite, the one he gave me long ago.  
  
Him.  
  
*****  
  
He came the summer that I was five, staying at his grandfather's farm. I was at the base of Moon Mountain, tracing the movements of a ladybug on paper, when I first saw him.  
  
"Who are you?" he asked, not meanly, but with the curiosity of a child.  
  
I blushed...I don't do well with strangers...and stammered, "M-my name...my name is Maria."  
  
"The Mayor's daughter?" he asked. So he knew Father. I nodded. "What are you doing?"  
  
"I was reading a book on ladybugs, but there was something else I wanted to know," I explained. "I want to draw the way this one moves and see where it flies to."  
  
We watched the ladybug for a moment or two, then he asked, "Do you like to read?"  
  
I nodded again. "Oh, yes! I love to read."  
  
The boy smiled. "Then I'll have a present for you sometime..." With that, he was gone.  
  
I went to the library the next day, trying to find a book about grasshoppers. He came in a few minutes later and handed me a big book.  
  
"It's for you," he told me.  
  
I felt my cheeks growing hotter. "...for me? Why?"  
  
"I heard that you like to read. Mom gave me this before I came here, but I already read it all. Do you want it?"  
  
I nodded. "Of course! Thank you so much for your kind gift..."  
  
"You're welcome," he said, grinning, and then he was out the door again.  
  
I saw him a few more times that summer, and by the end...writing these words still makes me blush, but...I was in love with him. But Karen...Karen was the one I always saw him with. And when Jack came this year to take over the farm after the death of his grandfather...Jack was near Karen too. And then I saw her carrying the music box that she'd once given that boy, the music box she'd said he had promised to return to her someday...I knew that Karen was the one he loved.  
  
*****  
  
I was foolish; I know that now. He could never have cared for me. But...I wanted so badly to believe...  
  
I picked up the book, felt the weight of it in my hands. I wanted to burn it to ash, rip and tear it until only shreds of paper remained, hurl it out into the snow, hear the glass shatter...  
  
For an instant, I held the book up and cocked my arm to throw.  
  
Then I collapsed. I couldn't do it. I could not destroy the book.  
  
I shelved the book again, in the very bottom corner of the fantasy section where I wouldn't have to look at it. Then I returned home, the remnants of tears staining my face.  
  
*****  
  
We eat dinner now in stony silence, my father cheerfully oblivious, my mother sighing occasionally as she eats, taking tiny bites which she will later throw up. As I watch her, a part of me is crying, 'No! No, I don't want to be like that!' I don't want to be her.  
  
I don't want to be me, either...  
  
We clear the table, still wordless. No one has mentioned my birthday. I can't stand the silence anymore. I run to my room.  
  
Lying on my bed, I feel sobs wrack my body, and I don't know why. The thought flashes across my mind again: that dust in the library will cover me, too. There is no escape. This is my whole life.  
  
Outside my window, I can see a ladybug crawling on the sill, its carmine body a drop of blood in the snow-white world beyond. It will die soon, of course. All the other ladybugs have abandoned this place until warmth and light return again. In a few hours, it will freeze, its tiny limbs gradually slowing as it leaves life behind.  
  
I wish I were that ladybug. I want to desert this shell, this pain. I want to know freedom, if only for an instant... 


End file.
